


Tequila

by littlelionlady



Series: Napoleon Solo's Inexhaustible and Exceptionally Broad Supply of Liquor [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Drinking, Drunk Gaby, Drunk Illya, Drunk Napoleon, Drunk Spies, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Pining, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, also a pool table, gaby knows how to hustle, illya is too drunk to care, napoleon is surprised, there's a seedy dive bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 05:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: Still perplexed by Illya's aversion to alcohol, and having just finished a mission in stiflingly hot Tijuana, Napoleon and Gaby decide to take Illya out for another round of Let's-Find-Illya-Some-Good-Booze, and Napoleon can't quite understand Illya's complete terror at what the duo has in store for him. Terror that is completely founded of course.





	Tequila

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun/gifts).



> Hey guys, sorry this has taken so long. Between two assessment pieces for uni, and a sinus infection, this was a bit tough to write. I'm delivering it to you now with the most disgusting of colds. 
> 
> The whole series with be for dear Darkest_Sun. Sorry in advance lovely. But this idea is all because of you. 
> 
> Quick warning, there is vomit in this. So if you're sensitive to that, look away. 
> 
> Otherwise, I think it's important you know that my Spanish is limited so I took the liberty of using Google translate. Please let me know if anything is incorrect and I will endeavour to fix it. 
> 
> Three cheers to my partner for reading it over and telling me if it was shit or not. Apparently it's not, so that's why it's here. 
> 
> As always, I live for comments and reviews so HMU.

Tijuana, Mexico was  _ hot.  _  Stiflingly hot. Hot enough that Gaby and Illya were prepared to kill Napoleon if he suggested they go exploring one more time. Their hotel at least (bless Waverley for continuing to set them up in nice hotels after a mission was finished, which Illya suspected was both Gaby and Napoleon’s doing) was cooler than the hot Mexican sun.    
  
Gaby lay sprawled across the couch, skirt hitched, potentially far too high up her thighs, fanning herself with a folded piece of paper she had ripped from their dossier. She looked too young, round face flushed, loose curls frizzy and sticking to her forehead and temples with sweat. She felt suffocated in her own lungs and wondered how Illya was still breathing; wondered how Napoleon was up and walking around like this thick cloying feeling at the back of her throat wasn’t contagious in some way. The heat and the dirt and the sweat tasted acrid, and even as she scrunched up her nose against it there was no denying that she might die here if she did not cool down soon. She felt as though she might dry out, that all the liquid in her body would evaporate against her skin and she would be found here, as a pile of dust and ashes. Napoleon, as if sensing her discomfort, handed her a glass of water wordlessly. 

He padded across the floor barefoot, to hand the second to Illya, who was lying on the floor shirtless. Actually shirtless. In a puddle of his own sweat. Napoleon liked to refer to this as ‘standby’. He would graze his gaze over Illya’s half-naked form, lips quirking at the corners. It was enough to make Illya blush, pants suddenly a little too tight, again. It was the game Napoleon had been playing for days, as Illya and Gaby lay and sweated in the heat, with no clue as to how to regular their own body temperatures. Illya was reserving what little energy had to make it through the last few days. Once they touched back down on English soil, Illya hoped Napoleon had the decency to run before his legs got snapped. This time, however, Napoleon didn’t say anything. He just handed the glass silently to his companion and made a gesture that he should drink.

That wasn’t to say of course that Napoleon wasn’t feeling the heat. He was from New York, not Florida. He had spent a large portion of his life in the colder parts of Europe - trips to the southern hemisphere being limited and humid every single time. But he knew what to do in climates like this; the CIA would send him south to Mexico and Columbia and Brazil often enough that he was adept at keeping heat stroke and dehydration at bay. Which is why it was such a shock to him how useless the others were, how sick they were with heat. Briefly, he was annoyed at Waverley for not considering this before sending them halfway around the world for a trail that was decidedly lukewarm by the time they had landed. 

He squatted down next to were Illya had sprawled across the floor after emptying his glass, “Peril,” his voice was low, holding none of his usual bravado, “You need to go take a cold shower.”

Illya mumbled something unintelligible. Napoleon was worried about him; the shadows under his eyes had grown more pronounced, his skin was ashy pale and sticky with sweat. His worry bled into his voice, and there was little he could do to stop it, “Illya, you need to cool down before you get sick. You’re going to keep boiling yourself if you lie on the floor any longer.” 

Illya opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the American with baleful annoyance, “More water,” he rasped after a while.    
  
Napoleon took the glass and refilled it while Illya unstuck his bare skin from the wooden floor. He drank deeply, letting some of the water leak from the corners of the glass where his lips had not managed to catch it, down rivulets across his chest. Napoleon tried not to stare at the desperation of it. A desperate Peril was an image Napoleon didn’t need clouding his brain while he attempted to take care of the two sweating idiots in his hotel room. He took the glass from Illya and pointed to the bathroom. The Russian groaned as he stood, clumsily, for what Napoleon suspected might be the first time in his life, before sauntering off down the hallway.    
  
Napoleon couldn’t help the small twitch of his lips at then indents the floorboards had made in Illya’s back. 

He filled the pitcher of water again, and put it next to Gaby, on the coffee table, “I’m ducking out,” he told her, shaking her shoulder to rouse her enough, “When I get back, you will have drunk the whole lot.” 

She groaned, but he continued over the top of her, “If you don’t Miss Teller, I will be forced to put you in the shower with your clothes on.”   
  
Her eyes flung open wide in shock, “You wouldn’t.”    
  
His grinned smugly at her, his smooth facade cracking slightly with mischief. This was Gaby’s favourite part of Napoleon; it made her ache for him. He was so lumbering and broken at times, thinking himself far crueller and smoother than he was, that she often wanted to watch him crack, just for her. To let her see  _ Napoleon.  _ The man. Not the art thief. Not the spy. Not the seducer who bedded women just because he could. Not the agent whose body was owned by the state, forced to perform acts under the guise of protecting a country he held no allegiance to. Not the agent who had little respect for his own life, and help what small amount of dignity he had left up like a shield. 

The Napoleon that was a little drunk and unkempt and dishevelled; eyes flashing with mischief and wanton with a desire for freedom. She knew this about him - every day he was away from the CIA was, for Napoleon, like taking the first breath. But he never was any of these things outwardly, preferring to keep himself locked up save only for his own company. His mask would slip back before she could next blink, wondering if she had even glimpsed him at all. He was the same man who held her as they slipped over the wall and into West Berlin. She wondered if he always would be. 

He stood and grabbed his keys on the way to the door, “I’ll be back soon. Make sure Peril drinks some more too. You’re both useless in the heat.”    
  
“Where are you going?” She asked, confused at his sudden abandonment of care.    
  
He threw her another mischievous smirk over his shoulder, and her heart squeezed with affection, “You’ll see.”    
  
And he was gone. 

 

*

 

When he returned, Napoleon was secretly glad to see that Illya was sitting upright on an actual chair, taking regular sips from his glass. He was still half naked, but this was a small improvement. Gaby was opposite, hair dripping over her shoulders, wearing nothing but a towel and also sipping slowly. He put his cargo on the bench    
  
“How’re you both feeling?” he asked, avoiding their eyes so they wouldn’t be able to see the amusement. 

“Much better,” Illya rumbled, looking down at the glass in his hands. Napoleon could tell he was a little embarrassed. This only served to fuel his delight. He chuckled. 

Gaby tutted at him, “It’s not funny.”

Napoleon shrugged, “I never said it was,” he laughed again, “But tell me you would have thought to take showers and drink water eventually?”

“We’re not children Napoleon!”

“That’s still not an answer Gaby.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.  

He poured himself a glass of water and winked over the top of the rim, “And because I’ve been looking after you, like sick children, you’re going to be doing me a favour.” 

It was Gaby’s turn to laugh, albeit scathingly. Illya raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. For the first time in their tumultuous relationship, the unerring realisation that Illya Kuryakin was  _ cute  _ shot through Napoleon. He looked away and poured the rest of the water in his glass down his throat.

Gaby gestured expectantly, “Well, what dirty deeds are you going to have us perform tonight?” she asked. Napoleon stifled a snort, turning to his groceries where he produced a bottle of tequila. 

“We are going to drink this,” he said triumphantly. 

Illya’s visible paling was a stark contrast to the maniacal gleam in Gaby’s brown eyes, “Are you serious?” they both asked, Gaby excited and Illya terrified.

“Yes, I am serious,” he paused for effect, because he was nothing if not dramatic, “And then we are going to go to a local bar around the corner and drink snake tequila.”

“Snake tequila,” the words sounded funny in Illya’s thick accent, “Do you mean there are actual snakes in the - “

“Tequila? Yes. They are  _ dead _ snakes. But they’re in the bottle.”

“Holy fuck.”

 

*

 

Illya almost spat his first shot out. He slammed the small shot glass down on the kitchen bench, his eyes almost bulging out of his head before he managed to swallow it. He coughed as it slid down his throat, and Solo whacked him heartily on the back before throwing back his own shot like it didn’t kill a part of his soul. He handed Illya a piece of lime and sucked on his own gratefully. Illya copied, wincing at the sour taste. 

“Fuck,” Illya said again, “How do you drink this?”

Gaby was still grinning when she licked the salt off her hand and swigged hers like it was a mouthful of water. Napoleon laughed and poured out three more. Gaby took Illya’s lime and stuck it in her mouth, never breaking eye contact with him. It made him uncomfortable, and he knew she did it on purpose. He poked her in the ribs.

“The thing is Peril,” he said conversationally, “After about the third one, you kind of stop feeling it.”

Illya looked so severe that Napoleon laughed.

“I am not surprised,” the Russian mumbled darkly.

He watched Napoleon lick his hand, tip salt onto it, and lick it off again. The American grinned at him, the kind of smile that hid nothing; the kind of smile Napoleon saved specifically for small moments Illya could tell he was storing in his mind somewhere, to look back on. Something that would make him happy. Illya’s stomach fluttered.

Napoleon drank his shot and picked up another piece of lime. Illya followed the same pattern; salt, tequila, lime.

By the fourth one, Napoleon suggested they slow down. 

“Why?” Gaby slurred.    
  
“Because we still want to be able to make it to the bar.” 

Illya shrugged, “I don’t feel a thing,” he said, and it was true. Other than the burning in his throat and the sour taste in his mouth, he really did feel fine. Maybe slightly buzzed, but nothing he couldn’t handle. 

Napoleon’s laugh came out more like a bark, “Oh, but you will.”

 

*

 

The walk the few blocks to the cantina was uneventful save for Gaby, who felt the need to curl an arm around each man’s waist so they were walking three abreast down the street. Once they were inside the dimly lit bar, Napoleon lead them over to the counter and blasted rapid-fire Spanish at the bartender who laughed heartily and produced a big bottle of clear liquid with a dead snake coiled inside. 

“Solo,” he said, “I’m not going to drink that.” 

Napoleon turned to him, “Are you a man, or are you a mouse?” he asked mockingly. 

Illya visibly gulped, “Honestly Cowboy, am beginning to think I am mouse.”

This caused both Napoleon and Gaby to laugh. Napoleon put a light hand on his arm, and Illya could feel it burning him through his clothes. His eyes sparkled with delight, and Illya was comforted, just a little.

“Peril,” he said, smiling sweetly, “You don’t have to drink it. But just try it? The whole point of the experiment is to find something you might like.” 

“If the limes and salt back in the apartment are any indication Cowboy, I am not biggest fan of Mexican rocket fuel.” 

Napoleon waved a hand dismissively, handing Illya the small shot glass of snake tequila, “That stuff was cheap, which is why we needed the salt and limes. This stuff isn’t. And it’s good. Trust me.” 

Which Illya did, implicitly. And possibly to his own detriment.   
  
He scowled and threw back his shot, wincing a little as it burned its way down. 

“And?” Gaby asked expectantly, holding hers up to her mouth.    
  
Illya shrugged, “Could have been worse.” 

Napoleon clapped him on the back, “I will take that as a success,” he said. 

Illya frowned, “This is not a regular drink for me Cowboy.”    
  
Napoleon nodded, “It’s not really a regular drink for anyone. And,” he sighed, “I don’t think I could do this at the end of every mission. But you’re enjoying it, or yourself, or both. And that’s a win.” 

Illya was touched. His eyes softened and he smiled a small smile of thanks. Napoleon dropped his eyes, unable to stop the small blush rising to his ears. He scrubbed the back of his neck and shot Illya a self-deprecating smile. He was beautiful. Illya bit his lip. He wanted to make Napoleon blush like that again, for entirely different reasons.

Napoleon handed him another glass which the Russian threw back without breaking eye contact.

 

*

 

Illya couldn’t feel it per se. His heart was pounding and his body wasn’t connected to his head right. His limbs weren’t moving the way he told them to, and he couldn’t really bring himself to care because he was having too much fun. He couldn’t feel his goddamn brain. Maybe that was what Napoleon had meant.

Napoleon had decided to teach Illya how to play billiards. The Russian had ruined him in the first game, forgoing telling the American that he already knew how to play. But after that, he had been too drunk to care who won. He just leaned heavily against the wall and threw out unhelpful advice to whoever it was that was up.    
  
Then Napoleon had gone about trying to teach Gaby, who had ruined all the fun in that by taking every subsequent game from Napoleon. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good at it, just that Gaby was better. Which should have surprised someone, and in fact surprised no one. 

“Hey Napoleon,” she whispered, “Those men over there are watching us.” 

Napoleon nodded, “I know.” 

Illya wondered if he should be concerned and then decided that cost too much effort. 

“Should we ask them to play?” Gaby asked, raising an all-knowing eyebrow. 

Napoleon grinned a shit-eating grin at her, “I didn’t know you knew how to hustle Miss Teller.”    
  
She quirked an eyebrow at him, “Really? Who said anything about hustling?” 

“Why would we play them otherwise?”

“You make a very valid point,” she grinned wickedly.

“She spends too much time with you Cowboy,” Illya slurred. He was beginning to feel a little sickly. Maybe the last shot hadn’t been a good idea. The room wouldn’t hold still. Or maybe he couldn’t hold still. He wasn’t sure. 

“You okay Peril?” Napoleon’s concern was on him in a second. He waved the American off. 

“I’m just going to go sit down,” he turned and stumbled to a nearby table, planting himself squarely in one of the seats.

Sure that Illya would be safe as long as he didn’t move, Napoleon turned back to the task at hand; hustling some Mexicans out of hard-earned pesos. Something he was finally good at.

Both Napoleon and Gaby ramped up their drunkenness, giving a pair of older men a sense of safety they did not deserve. Gaby had picked their marks based on the lecherous looks they had been giving her all evening. Napoleon was more than willing to oblige.

In quick-fire Spanish, he encouraged the men to join them in a game, sweetening the pot with the promise of a cash reward should they win. The concept of easy money and a view of Gaby’s behind as she bent over the table, was too much to resist and then men dived at the opportunity.

Gaby and Napoleon played dirty; waiting until halfway through the game, when the men had a fairly substantial lead, before sinking every ball on the table.

“The biggest comeback since Lazarus,” Napoleon mumbled. He kissed Gaby’s cheek, scooped the money up, and turned around to find the table that Illya had been sitting at was empty. 

“Ah,” he said. Gaby quirked an eyebrow and turned to face the same way. 

“Shit.” 

“Hey! You!” One of the men waved a finger at him, “ No estas tan borracho!” 

Napoleon nodded, looking over the man’s head to scan the room for the big, blonde, and probably really drunk Russian, “Si señor disculpe,” he made to step around the man who grabbed him by the wrist with one hand, spun him around and punched him squarely in the face, catching Solo off guard.    
  
“Eres un mentiroso, un ladrón!” 

Solo draw himself back to his full height, rubbing his jaw, “Well sir,” he said in English, “You’re not wrong there,” and because there was just enough alcohol in his system to make this seem like a good idea, Napoleon retaliated by punching the man straight in the nose. Waverley would be furious.

His fighting technique was not good; he could probably have stood to take a few lessons of Illya, who was some sort of hand to hand combat God. All Napoleon could do was scrabble and brawl, which was ideal with their setting, and not their situation. He could have used the Russian’s back up.

Gaby materialised at his side when the other man had begun advancing and had kicked and punched like a trooper, laughing the whole time. She made for equally good back up but was more likely to get them in extra trouble. Napoleon wondered if there was something wrong with her - she enjoyed chaos more than the average witch.

Napoleon threw the man he was fighting over his shoulder and slammed him into the billiard table. It gave an almighty heave but did not buckle, and for that Napoleon was grateful.

“Queremos nuestro dinero de vuelta,” he choked, turning his head to spit blood out. 

Napoleon leaned over him, eyes hardening but the smile never leaving his face, “No. Not for the way you looked at my friend. Not for the way you play pool.” 

The barman came out from behind the counter, “Out!” he ordered, pointing to the door. Gaby nodded and Napoleon smiled sheepishly, and they both cut for it. Gaby was still laughing as Napoleon was breathed in deeply. His face ached.

And then suddenly they heard the sickening sound of someone vomiting; there in the bushes was Illya Kuryakin, doubled over, hands on his knees, face red and eyes streaming, hurling his guts onto the gravel and into the bushes. Gaby wrinkled her nose and Napoleon sighed, again.

“So this is why he doesn’t drink,” Gaby muttered.

“A lightweight,” Napoleon agreed.

Illya stood, still swaying slightly, and turned around as if sensing them, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.    
  
“I hate you both,” he said, “And I hate tequila.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Spanish Translations:  
> No estas tan borracho! - You are not so drunk!  
> “Si señor disculpe - Yes sir, excuse me.  
> Eres un mentiroso, un ladrón! - You are a liar, a thief!  
> Queremos nuestro dinero de vuelta - We want our money back. 
> 
> (Same bro, same)


End file.
